


(in the ripest quiet), shadows of sweet sounds.

by flustraaa



Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender, Dead Poets Society (1989), dead poets society fusion (1989)
Genre: Big Brother Sokka (Avatar), Bisexual Disaster Sokka (Avatar), Bisexual Disaster Zuko (Avatar), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hurt Sokka (Avatar), Hurt Zuko (Avatar), I still don’t know how to tag so sorry, Late Night Conversations, M/M, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Oblivious Zuko (Avatar), Past Mai/Zuko (Avatar), Past Sokka/Yue (Avatar), Protective Sokka (Avatar), Protective Zuko (Avatar), Sokka (Avatar) is a Good Friend, Zuko (Avatar) is a Good Brother, Zuko (Avatar) whump, Zuko (Avatar)-centric, Zuko is an Awkward Turtleduck, Zuko's Scar (Avatar), author is a literature whore, author is not straight and cannot help herself, dead poets au, no beta we die like jet, reading poetry bc they like each other, two bros chillin in a secret society, zuko is a cellist
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-30
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:55:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28437228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flustraaa/pseuds/flustraaa
Summary: “oh,” sokka murmurs, as if zuko resting one of the softest lines of john keat’s letters to fanny brawne on his desk wasn’t the absolute worst way to confess his love, “i didn’t know you felt that way.”zuko doesn’t miss the way sokka omits the word too, and suddenly, their dorm feels like there’s only room for one.(or,the dead poet’s society au that no one mcfricken asked me for).
Relationships: Aang & Sokka (Avatar), Aang/Katara (Avatar), Azula & Zuko (Avatar), Iroh & Jeong Jeong & Piandao (Avatar), Iroh & Zuko (Avatar), Jeong Jeong/Piandao (Avatar), Katara & Zuko (Avatar), Piandao & Sokka (Avatar), Piandao & Zuko (Avatar), Sokka & Zuko (Avatar), Sokka/Zuko (Avatar), The Gaang & Zuko (Avatar), Toph Beifong & Sokka, Toph Beifong & Zuko
Comments: 1
Kudos: 25





	(in the ripest quiet), shadows of sweet sounds.

Zuko, quite frankly, hates his life. 

He’s seventeen, and he’s lived to see more than most people do in their entire lives— but that’s not necessarily a great thing. 

The thing about Zuko, is that he compartmentalised everything and one day he knows it will all explode and ashes and ruins and rubble with be left to repair in his wake. 

He is straight laced and proper— but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t have secrets to hide and passions to keep if he wants to make it any further in this life. 

His father says he’s lucky to have been born— and maybe that’s the case, but as far as his uncle is concerned, Zuko was born lucky. 

He was born into a life of tragedy, but with a mind to grow. 

At least, that’s what his uncle reminds him the entirety of the drive to Welton Academy— as trees move in the distance, and the stars become more visible than they had ever been in Boston. 

He can feel Uncle’s concerned eyes on the side of his face, despite the lack of vision that’s always there to remind him of his pitfalls and shortcomings. 

“I think you’ll be surprised how much you enjoy Welton, my nephew,” Iroh chirps, voice warm in the way it gets when he’s trying to quell Zuko’s constant and unending internal conflicts. “You may even be surprised by what you’ll learn.” 

“Agricola, argricolae, agricolae, agricolam, agricolā, right?” Theres no bite behind Zuko’s words, and it seems to take his uncle off guard for a long moment before the silence is replaced with a gentle laugh, “farmers and the declensions of maim and slaughter.” 

“Oh, my boy,” he sighs, “latin is so much more than maiming and slaughtering. There’s also vague homoerotic undertones to every single story.” 

Zuko blinks, cheeks flushing deeply as he risks a look at Iroh. The tea-lover is just staring at the road, expression passive and lips curling into the smile that rarely leaves his face anymore. 

He can’t help but wonder if uncle knows— he prays to the Gods he hasn’t believed in, in years, that he doesn’t. 

But they’ve really never been too good at answering, anyway.

* * *

He’s been on campus for five minutes— five whole minutes, and he’s already taking the Azula approach to life. 

To immediately hate everything in his general direction, but with the grace of his uncle.

This, of course, mean he shuts his mouth and keeps his head down in a way that has his mother’s voice cooing about her shy little turtle-duck.

And for a reason he can’t explain, it only makes him realise that maybe this campus will be far more like home than Caldera Academy ever was.

_So yeah_ , he thinks, _fuck Caldera_.

It’s a very odd sight to be greeted with gaggles of boys tearfully waving to their parents, bags slung over their shoulders, and clothes casual and preppy.

At Caldera, it was uniform or suffer the consequences— the etiquette strict and morals more questionable than Zuko would care to admit to having followed.

He doesn’t venture any further into thought before he realises uncle is speaking to someone— one glance up from Zuko’s copy of Wuthering Heights confirms that this man in front of him is, in fact, the headmaster.

His spine straightens, and on impulse he throws his hand out to shake the one across from him.

It’s firm, three shakes in the middle before his hands find their way behind his back and his eyes set on the ones across from him in a respectful and obedient manner.

“Hello,” he swallows hard, though the sound is dead silent, “it’s an honour to attend Walton.”

“It’s fitting,” the man grins, grey eyes softer than Zuko could begin to comprehend. The fondness fades momentarily, as Zuko stares blankly, “Zuko Suzuki, you share the last name of a famous string player— Shinichi Suzuki, though there’s no correlation other than coincidence.”

“Yeah— I mean, yes, sir,” he takes the soft flesh of his cheek between his molars, gnawing quietly in a desperate attempt to quell theanxiety that threatens to rupture from his frame at any moment. “I grew up learning from his cello lessons— it was my private instructors favourite source of education.”

To his astonishment, Master Piandao only lets out a quiet, good humoured chuckle, “Zuko, that’s no way to treat your old teacher. I may be old as dirt, but I can remember great student when I see one— a prodigy at that.”

His throat goes dry, but Piandao doesn’t seem to notice, turning his attention to Iroh as Zuko slowly zones out of the conversation.

Golden eyes trail over the campus, before he locks eyes with a pair of bright cerulean ones, with deep bronze skin to match.

There’s a hoard of boys walking with him, most notable is a smaller kid trailing next to the blue eyed-boy, seemingly floating on his feet as he chats with the blue-eyed adonis beside him.

The very-handsome-one raises a hand, giving it a short wave with a bright grin, which Zuko returns awkwardly; his lips barely manage to curl into a smile.

But its not long before the two boys disappear behind the walls of the sciences building and Zuko is struggling to catch his breath.

“Do you know Sokka?” Zuko’s eyes snap up to the headmaster, head shaking before he can stop himself from being an embarrassment to literally everyone including his ancestors, “oh. No matter, Sokka is a kind young man. I trained him a few summers ago, I think you two will get along well.”

The stupid knowing glimmer is back, only this time, it’s in Piandao’s eyes too.

* * *

“Hey!” Zuko nearly shits himself at the hand on his shoulder, “courtyard kid! I hear we’re roommates.”

Zuko is incredibly, undeniably fucked. He opens his mouth, but Sokka is already continuing on with his introduction.

“I’m Sokka Immaroitok,” he holds out a hand to Zuko, eyes crinkling at the sides in a way that makes sense in a way he can’t really explain.

Zuko, despite himself, takes it, “Zuko Suzuki.”

“Oh sick, like the violin dude?” Sokka blinks, eyebrows furrowing as he mutters, “not to assume you’re like... related to him, just like... you have the same last name and also a giant guitar on your back.”

“No it’s— okay. Yeah, like the violinist,” he doesn’t mention that it’s nicer to be compared to one of the people he’s looked up to since he was a child, rather than to be compared to the father who is know locked behind cold iron bars. “How did you know about him?”

“Oh, one of my friends, Toph, is a pianist— she didn’t use any of his books, but she’s made me listen to him a few times in between her heavy metal,” he winced, seemingly lost in thought, “she’ll give you whiplash, man. But like— what do you expect from the baddest bitch on the block, right?”

The snort that claws it’s way from Zuko’s throat surprises them both, and after breaking out of his stupor, Sokka grins easily, “all it takes to make the quiet kid laugh, is calling my blind friend the baddest bitch on the block?”

And the stars align as Zuko realises exactly who he’s talking about, “Toph Beifong? Like blind as a badger-mole, earth-bending, pianist Toph Beifong?” 

“Yeah! You know her?”

At this Zuko nods, setting his cello down as he sits down on his bare box spring mattress, echoing, “yeah. She’s the baddest bitch on the block.”

“Wait, didn’t you transfer from Caldera?” Sokka plops down on the desk that’s already half set up, “it’s like— a thousand miles away. Why Vermont?”

“My uncle went head,” Zuko mutters, scratching the nape of his neck before taking on, “so did his son and my father.”

“Oh, Lu Ten,” Sokka whispers, voice suddenly hoarse, “you’re _that_ Suzuki.”

“Yeah,” Zuko struggles to breathe, “that _Suzuki_.” 


End file.
